


Posthumous Damnation

by FeralsRock



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Karma is a Bitch, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Omniscient, Spoilers, aka how the rivera family fucking destroyed ernesto's reputation forever, and she hates Ernesto de la Cruz, rating has been changed as of chapter 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-03-04 23:24:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13375257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeralsRock/pseuds/FeralsRock
Summary: Posthumous [pos-chuh-muh s, -choo-]adjective1. arising, occurring, or continuing after one's deathErnesto could maybe, eventually, kind of accept his ruined reputation in the Land of the Dead. But that was because he knew there was no way Hector's snotty little brat of a great-great grandson would ever be able to reveal Ernesto as the plagiarizing murder he actually was to the rest of the world, or even his own family, without sounding crazy. Ernesto could not have been more wrong.





	1. A Fiery Conspiracy

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by: 
> 
> http://slusheeduck.tumblr.com/post/169475142068/anarkyandnakama-kryptoncat-ive-been-reading
> 
> I haven't had inspiration this good in a long time!
> 
> I am planning on at least one more chapter focusing on the truth of Ernesto being a murder coming to light, but that'll need a little more research. I might also add in a brief epilogue. 
> 
> I did not have an editor for this and i wrote this chapter in like an hour on my phone, so if you see any mistakes, PLEASE let me know so I can get them fixed.

Less than a week after the Rivera family publicly revealed that Ernesto de la Cruz had stolen all of his songs from Hector Rivera, conspiracy theorists started popping out of the woodwork.  Upon de la Cruz’s death, his belongings had been distributed as required by his will and any remaining items of significance were saved and preserved to be put on display as a form of memorial for Mexico’s most famous and beloved musician.

Hidden among those remaining belongings was a battered and well used notebook with a faded, red leather cover.  The inside of it was filled with the original, handwritten sheet music and notes for all of de la Cruz’s songs!  But, upon further examination, people started to notice that the handwriting in the notebook didn’t match any other examples of de la Cruz’s handwriting.  Officially, the in-discrepancy was written off as the musician having originally written the notes when he was younger and his handwriting style having simply changed over the years as handwriting is known to do.  Unofficially, the in-discrepancy was the first spark of a fiery conspiracy.

Even before his death, overly dedicated fans had gone to great lengths to research de la Cruz’s path to fame.  Going off official reports and word of mouth, fans even tracked down places that de la Cruz’s stayed when he was traveling from town to town, trying to make a name for himself.  And almost every time a fan managed to track down a hotel ledger listing Ernesto de la Cruz as a guest in the year 1921, his name was accompanied by the name “Hector Rivera.”  Fans theorized wildly.

Who was this mysterious Hector Rivera?  Was he a friend of de la Cruz?  Maybe a roadie?  A _stalker_?  Why did his name suddenly stop appearing with de la Cruz’s in hotel ledgers about half way through 1921?  Where did he go?  What happen to him?

One particular fan of de la Cruz happened to work in public records and quietly decided to see what he could do to track down de la Cruz’s mysterious shadow.  He eventually found a Santa Cecilia wedding certificate for Hector and Imelda Rivera.  And proudly sitting in the place for the witness’ signature, sat the name of Ernesto de la Cruz.

Bolder fans tried to talk to the wife of the mysterious man who’d accompanied de la Cruz at the start of his career, but as soon as uttered a single word about music, every one of them found themselves driven away from the property.  Any who tried to return quickly learned just how hard Imelda Rivera could throw a boot.  Fans eventually stopped calling on her.  Any information the woman had obviously wasn’t anything she wanted to share, _**ever**_.  So fans moved on, but after hitting a dead end with Rivera’s spouse, fuel for the conspiracy slowed to almost nothing.

There _was_ a brief flare when the museum that held the notorious red leather notebook had it professionally rebound for the sake of preserving it, only to find that the very first page, the page usually used to declare a person’s ownership of such a notebook, had been carefully torn out.  But people rip the pages out of their notebooks all the time.  Anything that could be built on the single torn page was dismissed as wild speculation by even some of the conspiracy’s most dedicated followers.  The flare quickly died back down.

Some fans still talked about it, but with nothing new being added to the conspiracy, that’s all it ever was, just talk.

That is until one fateful Dia de los Muertos, when Rivera’s great-great grandson discovered the truth.  Miguel was able to restore Mama Coco’s memories of her long lost father, and keep Hector’s memory alive within his family.  After some discussion over several weeks, the Rivera family decided to let the world know about Hector’s letters to Coco and the lyrics to de la Cruz’s most popular song that were contained within.  The dates on the letters were all from long before Ernesto’s songs were released, so how else could Hector have known them if he wasn’t actually the one who wrote them only to have them stolen by de la Cruz?  Miguel might not have been able to directly reveal the truth about Papa Hector’s death, but he could at least make sure he got the credit he deserved.

The record company that held the rights do de la Cruz’s music immediately demanded an investigation, and, unfortunately for them, the evidence was damning.  One examination by a handwriting specialist was all it took to start tearing down Ernesto de la Cruz’s reputation forever.  The handwriting in Hector Rivera’s letters to his daughter and the handwriting in the famous red notebook weren’t just similar; they were exactly the same.


	2. A Promise Finally Fulfilled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector Rivera deserves to have his final resting place be with the rest of his family. The only problem is finding his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm on a roll and churned out chapter two on the same day as chapter one. However, things got kinda long so I'm gonna split up chapter two and make this fic four chapters instead of three. Enjoy!

When word got out that the handwriting in the famous de la Cruz notebook and Hector Rivera’s letters was a perfect match, just about every able-bodied de la Cruz conspiracy theorist made it their personal mission to either deliver every scrap of evidence they’d gathered over the years to the Rivera’s personally or send it in the mail.  For weeks after, the Rivera’s mail box was stuffed full of public records, pieces of evidence, and theories connecting together the significance those items.

One such piece of mail included a chronologically ordered compilation of every hotel ledger page that had been tracked down that bore both Ernesto and Hector’s names together.  Each page was carefully labeled with the exact name of the establishment, it’s location, and the date Ernesto and Hector checked in and checked out.  It was Miguel’s idea to use the ledger pages to try to track down Papa Hector’s remains, or at least have a starting point to look for him.

“He’s spent so long away from his family,” Miguel would plead, “He deserves to at least have his final resting place be with them.”

The genuine tears and wobble in his lip wasn’t what convinced Mama Elena to dedicate valuable shoe making time to search for remains of man that might never be found.  It was the knowledge that for almost 96 years, her dear mother, even as her mind began to fade, never let go of the hope that one day her Papa would come back.  Elena was a practical woman.  She knew her mother’s time on Earth was growing shorter by the day.  It pained her to admit it, but she knew it was the truth.  So, Elena Rivera made up her mind.  She might not be able to do anything to extend her mama’s life, but she damn well could make sure that when Mama Coco passed on, her spirit would be able to rest easy, knowing that Papa had finally come home.

So the search began.

The Riveras knew they had to do this search as quickly as they could, but with Mama Coco’s age and general health, paired with the fact that Papa Hector’s remains could be anywhere in Mexico, they knew they’d never be able to complete the search on their own in time.  So, Miguel and his cousin, Rosa, made a website, putting out a call to action, asking anyone who lived in or nearby one of the towns listed in the compilation of hotel ledger pages to look through public records and ask around if a man matching Hector Rivera’s description had ever been brought into the local hospitals, mortuaries, etc. around the middle of 1921.  The positive response was overwhelming.

Within less than a month, they struck gold.  In Mexico City of all places, the middle-age sheriff remembered the old story his grandfather used to tell of how one night in the early 1920s, a then relatively unknown Ernesto de la Cruz had come busting in through the door of the police station, desperately begging for help.

“Please- please!” he had cried, “M-My friend!  He’s collapsed in the street!  I don’t know what’s wrong with him!  H-He won’t wake up; I’m not even sure he’s breathing!  Just please, help him!”

The sheriff’s grandfather, who had then been sheriff himself, didn’t think he could have moved faster if the fires of Hell itself were after him.

“It’s such a shame,” the sheriff’s grandfather always used to say, “that poor boy was dead long before I got there.  He was already starting to go cold.”  He would shake his head sadly at that.  “Based on what de la Cruz told me later that night about how his friend collapsed, I’d say that young man was dead before he even hit the ground.”  He would pause.  “At least he didn’t suffer for long though.  We can rest easy knowing that much.” 

Sure enough, after a few hours of digging through the local church/mortuary’s old files he found a death certificate for one Hector Rivera.  Time of death: approximately ten minutes past twelve in the morning on July 23, 1921.  Cause of death: severe food poisoning.  As soon as the Riveras were relayed this information, and after much pleading, bribing, and promising on Miguel’s part to be brought along, Miguel and his father, Enrique, climbed into the family truck and made the day long journey to Mexico City.

With help from the very old local church that had taken responsibility for Hector’s corpse when no family came to claim him, and de la Cruz claimed that he had no means to afford a proper burial for his friend, they were able to exhume the body.  Identification was made much easier when an old black and white headshot photo of Hector was found tucked inside the pocket of the corpse’s jacket.  Later, Miguel would recognize it as the Land of the Living copy of the picture Hector had tried to have Miguel take back with him when they’d first met, though in much less pristine shape.  Unlike the repaired family portrait that sat at the top of the ofrenda at home, in this picture, Hector’s teeth were on prominent display with an open lipped smile.  One look at the teeth in the photo compared to the teeth on the skeletal corpse was all it took to let the Riveras know that Papa Hector had been found and was finally going to get to come home.

In their exuberance over finding Hector body and the making arrangements to have his remains shipped back to Santa Cecilia in a brand new coffin, a white and silver design to match his old guitar, none of them, not even Miguel, stopped to question why Hector’s death certificate didn’t list any family, despite the fact that de la Cruz should have certainly known about Imelda and Coco, until they were already back in the truck and on their way back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, I'm doing almost all of this on my phone, so please let me know if you notice any mistakes.


	3. Means, Motive, and Opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lies Ernesto told to protect himself prove to be his undoing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say this thing was gonna be four chapters? I meant five. Oops.

Miguel could have kicked himself, he felt so stupid!  How could he have forgotten the most important detail about Papa Hector’s death?  De la Cruz had murdered him!  Miguel had already managed to expose de la Cruz as a fraud, but Miguel knew he wouldn’t truly feel satisfied until he could expose him as a murderer, too.  The only question was how to do so without revealing his trip to the Land of the Dead or making himself sound crazy...   
  
A metaphorical lightning bolt struck and Miguel thanked his lucky stars that Mama Elena had been convinced some years ago to be a bit more lenient with the music ban when it can to television and movie soundtracks so the family could enjoy watching things like telenovelas and, most importantly, crime dramas.  Miguel’s parents had been careful about not letting him see episodes where the corpses were more gruesome, but he’d seen enough to learn about the three things cops looks for when trying to catch a murderer.   
  
Means, motive, and opportunity.   
  
Motive was easy; de la Cruz wanted to steal Hector’s songs.  Now all he needed was to convince the rest of his family that Hector’s death was suspicious and warranted looking into so they could find the other two.  Lucky for Miguel, de la Cruz had already provided the perfect opportunity.   
  
“Isn’t it weird that de la Cruz didn’t tell the sheriff about Mama Imelda or Mama Coco?” Miguel asked his father as they drove back home to Santa Cecilia.  “According to that old wedding certificate, de la Cruz was the witness and Mama Imelda and Papa Hector’s wedding.  Why wouldn’t he tell anyone that Papa Hector had a wife and daughter?”   
  
Enrique Rivera had no answer to that.   
  
“That... is rather suspicious,” he said after a brief pause.   
  
The car fell silent.  The seed of doubt had been planted in Enrique’s mind and it refused to let go.  It became such a distraction that he had to stop driving and pull the truck over to the side of the road, lest he risk getting into an accident.   
  
“Miguel,” Enrique said, breaking the silence, “do you think, maybe, de la Cruz might have hurt Papa Hector to get his songs?”   
  
“We already know de la Cruz stole his songs,” Miguel replied carefully, “It certainly wouldn’t hurt to look into it to see if he did something even worse.”   
  
Enrique thought for only a few seconds before making up his mind.  He pulled out his cell phone from his back pocket and handed it to Miguel.   
  
“Call your mother and let her know there’s been a slight change of plans,” he said as he put the truck in gear, turned around, and headed back to Mexico City. 

 

* * *

 

A brief explanation of their reasoning was all it took to get the sheriff on board with their plan.  The sheriff personally helped the two Riveras get in contact with the right people to start investigating whether or not Hector Rivera’s death had been a result of foul play.   
  
“The owner of one of the private labs we use sometimes owes me a favor.  I’ll get them to take the samples needed and fast track them for testing,” the sheriff said to Enrique.   
  
“No, señor, you don’t need to—“ Enrique tried to say, but the sheriff interrupted him.   
  
“This man’s case has slipped through the cracks for almost a century.  I’m not gonna let it keep slipping through if I can help it.”   
  
After a brief phone call to the lab and one called in favor later, the sheriff informed Miguel and Enrique that the needed samples would be collected first thing in the morning.  Hector’s body would be sent to the police mortuary for examination as well, just to see what might have been missed by the coroner back in 1921.  If all went well, they’d have results within the month. 

 

* * *

  
The results were not in Ernesto’s favor.  The hair and bone samples came back with traces of arsenic, but the soil samples from around the old grave did not.  Paired with the original autopsy report only reporting an inflamed stomach, a symptom consistent with sudden arsenic poisoning that could easily be mistaken for a symptom of food poisoning, the picture started to become clear.  Hector Rivera had not died from food poisoning as the original coroner had determined, or as Ernesto de la Cruz had speculated decades ago in his official police statement.  He had been given a lethal dose of arsenic.   
  
The means and motive for Hector’s murder had been found, now all Miguel had to do was find a way to convince his family and the rest of the world that Ernesto de la Cruz was the only one who’d had ample opportunity to commit the crime. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, I'm still writing this on my phone, and have now one to check and edit for me. So, please, let me know if you find any mistakes that I might have missed. And thank you all so much for the nice reviews and kudos! 
> 
> (P.S. - I'm not 100% sure how long the actual testing I'm describing would take, but this is the world of fiction so, suspension of disbelief. At least I didn't do what crime dramas do and have them getting back results within 24 hours.)


	4. The Lawyers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have all the evidence they need. Now to take it to court.

 

 

The Riveras were by no means a poor family.  They were the most famous shoe makers in Mexico, after all!  They were just a humble family.  Most of the profits they made went into savings and was only really used for emergencies or when the family started to grow beyond what the family home could handle and renovations needed to be made.  Never before had they needed to use that money to hire a lawyer. 

With the revelation that Hector Rivera had been murdered, the whole family wanted answers.  Miguel had been waiting for this moment and took the chance to give an impassioned speech to the rest of his family explaining the logic, reasoning, and evidence that led him to believe Ernesto de la Cruz had committed the murder.  The fact that the speech was already so well planned out, as if it had been planned for months rather than just a week or so, was lost on the rest of the Riveras as they realized just how much sense it made. 

The decision was unanimous.  They had to bring this to court, and there was no way they’d risk loosing by trying to represent themselves.  De la Cruz’s record company was already angry about them revealing that their golden boy had been a thief.  There was no way they were going to take a murder accusation lying down.  The record company could afford the best lawyers money could buy, but with the amount of money the Riveras had saved away, they hire a lawyer that was just as good. 

They found the perfect lawyer living two towns over.  She was a sweet, middle age woman with a kind face, bright red hair, and blue eyes that were filled with steely determination.  The first time the lawyer met the Rivera family, Miguel couldn’t help but be reminded of the determination Mama Imelda had had in her own eyes when the deceased Riveras were trying get Hector’s picture back from Ernesto at the Sunrise Spectacular.  Mrs. Mary Beth listened to everything the Riveras told her and took her notes with rapt attention, never once coming off like she was simply humoring them for sake of her paycheck. 

“Well, you certainly have plenty of hard evidence,” she said after the Riveras had finished speaking.  “You might have a few issues with the record company’s lawyers trying to claim that you’re making wild speculation, but with the scandal of Ernesto’s theft already swaying the public in your favor, it wouldn’t take much to convince a jury.” 

“So you think we could win?” Miguel asked, daring to hope. 

“With all the evidence you have and the public in your favor, it is definitely possible.”

 That was best news Miguel had heard in months. 

 

* * *

  
Mrs. Mary Beth had been right about the record company not being willing to accept the murder accusations quietly.  When they received the Manila envelope holding the papers listing the charges the Riveras were filing against Ernesto de la Cruz, the CEO had raged.  How _dare_ those little cobblers call de la Cruz a murderer!  They’d already destroyed his profits — er, Ernesto’s reputation enough by revealing him as a song thief, why couldn’t they leave well enough alone? 

Mrs. Mary Beth and her assistant, Guicho, had a private meeting with the CEO and company lawyers a week later. 

“My clients have more than enough evidence to convince any jury,” Mary Beth warned, “and with the public already in support of the Riveras, it’ll be all the easier to get a conviction.” 

“But we're merciful people,” Guicho continued, his raspy voice sounding anything but merciful, “Our clients are willing to settle out of court.  I’d recommend taking the offer.  Your business has already suffered from Ernesto’s thievery.  Just imagine how much worse it’ll be if you let this go to court and he’s found guilty.” 

The CEO scowled and clenched his hands into fists under the table. 

“Do really think people are going to want to stay in business with you if they find out you were knowingly defending a murderer?” Mary Beth taunted.  “I know I wouldn’t.” 

Her sly smirk was the last straw. 

“GET OUT!” the CEO screamed, “GET OUT OF MY OFFICE!” 

Mary Beth and Guicho calmly gathered up their files and briefcases. 

“See you in court then!” Guicho called back over his shoulder as he and Mary Beth walked out of the conference room, as calm as could be.  It took all four of the CEO’s lawyers to hold him back and keep him from adding physical assault to the list of crimes going on trial in two weeks. 

 

* * *

  
“This jury finds Ernesto de la Cruz guilty of plagiarism, theft of personal property, perjury, and the first-degree murder of Hector Rivera.” 

The jury's decision had been unanimous.  Mary Beth and Guicho had argued the case beautifully, combining solid evidence with logical conclusions to fill in any gaps that came about because of how old the case was.  The jury took less than an hour to reach their conclusion.  Ernesto de la Cruz’s reputation was destroyed, once and for all. 

The record company was ordered by the court to give the Rivera family monetary compensation for every cent the company had made off de la Cruz’s stolen music, including adjustment for inflation.  Nothing much could be done as punishment for the murder, but as a sort of consolation the record company was required to issue an immediate recall of any and all Ernesto de la Cruz merchandise, and all rights to the songs would be returned to the Rivera family.  The amount of money the Rivera’s received was staggering and enough that they would never have to work again.  But it was nothing compared to the joy Miguel got when he saw the wooden sign hanging around the bust of de la Cruz in the cemetery that said “FORGET YOU”. 

A week after the trial wrapped up, Hector Rivera was laid to rest, in a shiny white metal coffin, with silver accents and a tiny splash of gold on the lid.  It took a little rearranging, but Papa Hector’s final resting place would be right next to Mama Imelda on the family plot.  As the coffin was lowered into the ground, Miguel kept his eyes on Mama Coco as she smiled, and cried happy tears, and kept repeating one phrase over and over, as if she could hardly believe it was finally true. 

“Papa is home. Papa is finally _home_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No editor, blah, blah, blah, please let me know if you see any mistakes, etc.
> 
> Also, there may or may not be a reference to another animated Day of the Dead film hidden in this chapter. Bonus points to whoever finds it first.


	5. A Time to Grieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not everything could be prefect forever, but you have to find that little silver lining.

Not everything could be perfect forever.  A week after Hector was buried with his family, Mama Coco passed away peacefully in her sleep.  Mama Elena quickly came to the conclusion that walking into your elderly mother’s room so you could help her get ready for the day, only to find her body cold and bereft of life was one of, if not the _worst_ , ways to start your day.   
  
Elena was near inconsolable the day her mother died.  She prided herself on her strength; she was the matriarch of the family, after all!  But nothing could ever really prepare you for the loss of a loved one, no matter how much you expect it and try to prepare yourself for the inevitability of it.   
  
Elena had cried when her sister died, she’d _sobbed_ when her father died, and she outright _**wept**_ when her mother died.   
  
The only Rivera that had any idea of how to comfort her was her husband, Franco, and he just held her and kept her company until she eventually cried herself out and the tears ran dry.  For a week after Mama Coco’s passing, the workshop and store were closed.  Mama Elena had certainly been hit the hardest, finding herself working on autopilot through most of the day till she’d be reminded that her mother was no longer among the living and she’d burst into tears again, but every member of the family was in shock as well.   
  
Mama Coco has been a constant in the life of a Rivera.  Even those that hadn’t actively spent as much time with her felt the distinct lack of her presence and it was distracting.  No one would be able to focus on making shoes and even if they did manage to make a few the quality wouldn’t be anything worthy of selling.  Trying to work while the Rivera family was grieving was a fool’s errand, and Mama Elena was no fool.  So the shop stayed closed.   
  
Miguel was the only family member that seemed to be coping well, which took his family by surprise.  Of all the younger members of the family, Miguel was the one that had spent the most time with Mama Coco.  He’d always done his best to talk and spend time with her, even if Mama Coco’s advanced age and failing memory prevented her from being a very active participant in his conversations and games.   
  
“I’m sad she’s gone,” he’d tell his family when they asked, “but I know she’s with the rest of our family now.  She has Papa Julio, Tia Victoria, Tio Oscar and Felipe, Mama Imelda, and ...,” he would pause and his family couldn’t help but hear the hope creep into his voice, “she finally gets to see Papa Hector again.  She’s wanted to see her papa again for so long, and now she finally can.  So, it makes it hurt a little less.”   
  
That was mostly the truth, Miguel would reason with himself.  But if he was completely honest, the only thing that kept his heart from shattering into a million pieces was the hope that he’d been fast enough to help Mama Coco remember.  If he hadn’t been fast enough, if he’d been just a few seconds late, and Papa Hector had given into the Final Death before Coco could remember, Miguel wasn’t sure what he’d do.  He knew he wouldn’t be well and he’d be even more of a shell of his former self than Mama Elena currently was, but he also knew that dwelling on such negative thoughts wouldn’t do anyone any good.  So Miguel found every scrap of hope held in his heart, and prayed and hoped with every fiber of his being that he’d been fast enough.   
  
Before she’d passed, Miguel had sung Hector’s songs to Mama Coco every night and had listened with every bit of attention he possessed to the stories she’d tell him of her papa.  Even when she’d repeat a story, Miguel never complained.  The repetition would just help him remember the stories that much better.  He may or may not have cheated just a little bit and used some of his own personal knowledge of Hector and Imelda to try to spark more of Mama Coco’s memories from time to time, too.  But Mama Coco never questioned how he knew details about people he’d never met, and if it meant Miguel heard more stories about Hector so he could keep the man’s memory alive, he didn’t really care.   
  
With his help, Mama Coco was able to recall even more memories of her beloved father, and even if he didn’t have the ulterior motive of keeping Hector’s memory alive, Miguel wouldn’t trade the memories of Mama Coco’s smile as she talked about the man for anything in the world.  The way she smiled when she recalled her father's nightly lullaby, or how he’d always sing to her when she felt bad was worth more than the entire solar system.  The way she’d laugh when she recalled how, in the mornings, to help wake her up, her papa would improvise a silly little song and dance with her to the tune that he’d make up as he went, was worth even more.   
  
The night Mama Coco died, Miguel continued to sing Hector’s songs and as he sang, he imagined the tearful, happy reunion that Coco and Hector must have had that day.  Papa Hector had been waiting ninety-six years to give his daughter something as simple as a hug again, and Miguel giggled to himself when he imagined that Hector would probably be hugging Mama Coco for the entire day if Mama Imelda let him get away with it. 

 

* * *

 

Life for the Rivera family eventually went back to something resembling normal.  The loss of Mama Coco still hurt, but the worst of the pain and grieving seemed to be past them and the family had moved on to healing.  The pain of loss spiked from time to time for everyone, but, ever so steadily, it started to hurt less and less, till it became more of a dull ache.   
  
The arrival of Miguel’s baby sister only seemed to fast-track the process.   
  
After weeks of recovering from the revelation that Papa Hector had never returned home because he’d been murdered by his best friend, and the death of Mama Coco, the beginning of a new and precious life was just what the family needed.  Little Soccoro Rivera was born at a healthy seven pounds, eight ounces, and as soon as the rest of her family was given permission by the hospital to see her, she was surrounded by a family that knew they would do anything and everything they could to keep her safe and happy the moment they laid eyes on her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really need to stop saying this fic is gonna be "x number of chapters" cause I keep going over that number. I've learned my lesson now. This fic will be done when it's done. (But I'm hoping to wrap things up within 10 chapters.)
> 
> Reviews are always appreciated! <3


	6. On the Ears of the Deaf and the Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the updated warning and tags for this chapter! I know there are probably more gore-y and gruesome depictions of death on this site, but Ernesto got crushed by a giant bell. So my descriptions of his wounds get kinda graphic. You have been warned.

Despite what everyone thought, Ernesto de la Cruz had not died immediately when the giant bell fell on him.  He lived for approximately one minute afterwards, and it was the single most terrifying and painful minute of his entire life.  His funeral had to be closed casket for a very good reason.  No one exactly wanted to say their final goodbyes to a corpse that had almost half it’s skull caved in, after all.  
  
Ernesto’s memories of his final moments were fuzzy at some points, as were most individual’s memories of their death, but Ernesto remembered the pain as clearly as he did when he first experienced it.   
  
One moment he’d been singing on stage, surrounded by beautiful backup dancers as he climbed the stairs of the elaborate stage piece that had been constructed for that particular performance, and finishing the last song of the night with a vocal flourish.  Just as his powerful voice was starting to feel a strain from the prolonged final note, there was a loud CRACK and before the noise had properly registered in his brain, he felt himself being crushed by that damn bell.   
  
In real-time, the bell’s fall had barely been a second long, but when Ernesto remembered it, it seemed to take years.   
  
The bell’s swinging clapper had been the first thing to make impact.  That had been what caved in part of his skull.  The shifting weight of the clapper likely was what had kept the bell from falling straight, so the next thing to make impact was the bell’s lip with the floor.  The set piece had been made to handle the weight of several dozen people but not the falling force of a giant bell that weighed at least a thousand pounds, and as such, the floor collapsed almost immediately and Ernesto’s body crumpled with it.  Sharp pieces of the floor stuck up and impaled him.  Then, just to make matters worse, the clapper had swung back towards him and crushed his torso.   
  
None of what followed made Ernesto’s already painful and impending death anything even resembling peaceful.   
  
Shrill cries came from the dancers and audience as stage hands rushed to try to complete the doomed task of saving his life as fast as they could.  Orders were yelled, emergency services were called, and Ernesto _suffered_.  Only tiny slivers of light made it in through the gaps between the lip of the bell and the shattered floor, and the constant movement outside the bell as dancers were evacuated from the stage made the light flicker and strain his only remaining, functional eye.  Or maybe that pain was more from the crushed half of his head than any type of eye strain.   
  
Some part of him remembered trying to cry for help from under that bell, but his lungs were already filling with blood, and all that came out was a wet, half choked gurgle, that no one outside would have been able to hear through the bell’s thick brass anyway.  But still he tried to cry for help, and with every pained, shallow breath that no one responded to him, Ernesto’s panic had only grown worse.   
  
In the end, it had taken almost all night for emergency services to arrive and remove the bell that imprisoned Mexico’s most beloved performer, and what they found inside was anything but a pretty sight.  Ernesto’s once blue suit was stained purple, and almost black, in some places from all the blood.  Pieces of the stage stuck out of his collapsed chest, and his legs were broken almost beyond recognition.   
  
His face was the worst to look at.  Ernesto de la Cruz’s face had been part of what helped his music sell.  Women wanted him and men wanted to be him.  Even if his music career went down the drain at some point, Ernesto had been confident that his good looks would help him continue working in movies.  What a cruel twist of fate that his face was the most mangled part of him!  Half of his head had been caved in and the other half was covered in the splattered gore and brain matter.  His mouth hung open limply and coagulating blood either pooled inside or had dribbled down his chin.  And then there was his frozen expression.   
  
The emergency responders would have nightmares of Ernesto’s face for decades to come.  His remaining eye had been open when he’d breathed his last, and in that one eye was every ounce of pain and terror and utter aloneness Ernesto had felt in his dying minute as he’d been trapped under the bell, crying for help but no one hearing him.   
  
The one thing that Ernesto wished he remembered even less than the pain was how, as the damage to his brain truly began to take hold and the rest of his mind began to follow, his attempted cries of “Someone, help me!” had changed to “ _Hector_ , help me!”  Ernesto de la Cruz’s last breaths had been spent crying for help from a man he’d murdered more than twenty years before.   
  
Ernesto would deny it to the day he was forgotten, of course, even to himself, but a part of his brain refused to forget how he’d regressed in his final moments.  How he’d gone back to the comforting days when Hector was the answer to everything.  Of course Hector could save him from this terrible pain he felt everywhere in his body!  Hector Rivera made everything better!  But Ernesto’s cries fell on the deaf ears of the living, and the man he cried for could do nothing for him as his corpse rotted away in a forgotten grave in Mexico City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Another two chapters! I'm currently working on chapter seven but it might take awhile since I'm getting more busy with school and I'm starting to feel the inspiration wane a bit (but that could probably be solved by just watching Coco again so nbd).
> 
> As always, comments are greatly appreciated! <3


	7. Sunrise Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the home stretch now!
> 
> Special thanks to my friend, Cynthia, who helped me get past my writer's block and figure out how to finish this story. And I'd also like to dedicate this chapter to her pet rat, Snickers, who sadly passed away when I started writing this chapter. You will be dearly missed, little buddy.

Of course that godforsaken alebrije had thrown him under a bell!  How else could such a rotten Day of the Dead end?  Ernesto de la Cruz’s crimes in life had been revealed to the Land of the Dead, and then, just to add insult to injury, the Rivera’s giant alebrije had thrown him around and played with him like a cat would play with a dead mouse before flinging him into another bell, just like the one that had killed him.

To say that the way Ernesto had died was traumatizing was nothing short of an understatement.  It was hours before his own panicking wore him out enough that he couldn’t panic any more and was finally able to think.  The broken stone beneath him had a few cracks that were just large enough for him to slip through if he concentrated just enough to let his skeleton fall to pieces and fall through to the floor beneath.  Some residents of the Land of the Dead took full advantage of their status as skeletons and would have as much creative fun with how they could pull themselves apart and pull back together as they could.  Ernesto had never been one for experimenting with what his skeletal body could do, but, if he wanted to get away before the authorities came, he’d have to figure it out quick.

It was the fresh memory of how it had felt to have his skull spin around three hundred and sixty degrees on his neck several times after Imelda Rivera had smacked him that let him release whatever magical means kept his body together so his bones could slide down through the cracks.  It was the memory of pulling a humerus back into place after one of his chihuahua alebrijes, Risillo, had gotten a little too playful and decided Ernesto’s arm would be a perfect toy and had tried to run off with the bone that let him pull himself back together.  It was the panic and fear of being punished that let him be long gone by the time the police arrived.

 

* * *

 

Ernesto had hated living on the streets as a young boy, and he hated it even more now.  After escaping the accursed bell, Ernesto had run away as fast as he could, ditched his white suit (it would draw too much attention and was ruined anyway), and stolen some more mundane clothes off of someone’s clothes line.  He didn’t care who the clothes had belonged to, all that mattered was that they fit and the jacket had a large hood he could use to hide his face from view. 

When Ernesto had first seen the patterns on his skull after he’d died, he was delighted!  What better patterns for Mexico’s most beloved musician than stylized, golden treble clefs on his cheeks and symbols like the f-holes in a violin on his chin?  Now, Ernesto cursed that fact that the design on his skull was so unique.  Every skeleton’s patterns in the Land of the Dead were unique, of course, but symbols and patterns tended be a little more on the abstract side, so having marks that were clearly recognizable as something else was already rare, and having golden patterns was even rarer still.  One glimpse of the patterns on his skull would be all it would take for someone to recognize him, so Ernesto kept his face covered and stayed as far away from bright light sources as he could.  The last thing he needed was for his markings to reflect the light and catch someone’s attention.

Ernesto needed a place to hide and lay low.  As he scrambled to put as much distance as he could between himself and the stadium, de la Cruz stumbled, quite literally, upon an abandoned Shantytown, it’s former residents long since forgotten and the place left undisturbed as a means of respect.  Ernesto had heard about the various Shantytowns that littered the lower levels of the Land of the Dead.  He’d never had much interest in seeing one in person, but, in his time of need, stumbling upon the dreary place felt like a godsend.  Not even the police would disturb an abandoned Shantytown until they’d explored every other part of the Land of the Dead first, and the Land of the Dead was a very big place.  If Ernesto kept his head down, he’d be perfectly safe.

 

* * *

 

 

The booklet had shown up a week later.  Ernesto had suddenly felt that the pocket of his stolen jacket was weighed down and found the booklet resting inside.  The appearance of the booklet was less of a shock to him than the contents of it was.  Every resident of the Land of the Dead, upon their arrival, received a book that explained the workings and laws of the Land of the Dead.  Depending on how the person died, they might also receive a special booklet or pamphlet that went into more in-depth detail about specific laws, as well as offering ways of how to cope with their particular cause of death.  Ernesto had received a pamphlet entitled _“So You Died In A Gruesome Freak Accident”_.  The dark humor of the title had been a welcome distraction from the traumatic memories of pain and agony that he’d been experiencing only moments before.  The grim humor in the title of the booklet he now held didn’t do such a good job.

_“So You Murdered Your Best Friend And Stole His Songs!”_

Something told Ernesto that this booklet had been made especially for him.

Murders weren’t unheard of in the Land of the Dead.  Everyone died eventually.  But unless you were a serial or mass murderer, you were allowed to live your afterlife in peace, same as everyone else.  At least, that’s what Ernesto thought.  As he read the booklet, he found that murderers that were convicted in life lived under rigid restrictions.  You weren’t allowed within one thousand feet of your victim in a private or public place, you had to live at least ten housing districts away from them as well, and you were never allowed to cross over the Marigold Bridge without prior paperwork being filled out and police accompaniment.  Murderers that hadn’t been convicted in life, murderers like him, had it even worse.  If someone was posthumously found guilty of murder, they would be thrown into a solitary confinement cell and left there until they were forgotten and their spirit moved on to whatever came after.  That might not be too bad for some, aside from the potential insanity that could result from solitary confinement, since they’d probably be forgotten in a few decades or a century maximum.  But Ernesto was famous in the Land of the Living!  It could take centuries for people to finally forget him!  So as much as Ernesto detested the idea of being forced to continue living in the abandoned Shantytown for the rest of his afterlife, it was a far better option than whatever tiny cell they would surely shove him into, and he resigned himself to calling it home for the foreseeable future.

 

* * *

 

Ernesto found a brief glimmer of hope about a month after the Sunrise Spectacular.  His four chihuahua alebrijes had managed to escape the police raid on his former mansion and had finally reunited with him.  Exposed as a murderer or not, alebrijes were eternally loyal to the souls they guided.  Even if he had to spend the next several centuries hiding away, he’d at least have Risillo, Anya, Caramelo, and Adormilada to keep him company.

“I can do this,” Ernesto said aloud to himself as he hugged his alebrijes tight.  “So what, if the Land of the Dead hates me?  I have my spirit guides, and the Land of the Living loves me!  That’s all I need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Name meanings for Ernesto's alebrijes:
> 
> \- Risillo: to snicker (in loving memory of Snickers the Rat)  
> \- Anya... no real meaning I just liked the name  
> \- Caramelo: Spanish for "candy"  
> \- Adormilada: Spanish word meaning "the sleepy one"


	8. Punishment

Wrong, wrong, WRONG! 

This was all wrong!  How could the living have turned on him so quickly?!  If Risillo had just not run away from the shantytown to chase after... something, then Ernesto could have gone on with his afterlife in blissful ignorance, but, no, he couldn’t even have that.

Ernesto had just barely managed to scoop the alebrije into his arms before the little rascal had run out into the residential street.  With his alebrijes being almost as famous as he was, Ernesto couldn’t risk them being spotted any more than he could himself.  As Risillo was now safely tucked into his arms, Ernesto was ready to return to the little hut he now called home when he heard two voices coming from the street.  Terrified at the thought of being spotted, Ernesto practically threw himself into the shadows of the alley, and found himself infinitely grateful that the buildings in the Land of the Dead were so tall and cast such large shadows almost the entire day.  With bated breath, Ernesto waited for the voices to come closer, or move past the alley’s entrance, but they never did.  Instead, they seemed to stay just to the left of the alley.  Perhaps the owners of the voices where just sitting on a doorstep and shooting the breeze.  Relief flooded through Ernesto when he realized he wasn’t about to be caught, only for it to turn to lead in his metaphorical stomach when he heard that accursed name.

“Hey, Juan, you wouldn’t happen to know a guy by the name of ‘Hector Rivera’ would you?”

_Why were they talking about **him** of all people?! _

“Okay, one, just cause my last name is Rivera does not automatically mean I know every Rivera on the planet,” the second voice, Juan, replied in exasperation, “And, two, to actually answer the question, no, I don’t know him. Why do you ask?”

_A very good question!_

“Oh, no reason,” said the first voice in the fakest attempt at nonchalance Ernesto had ever heard, “I just mention him cause his living family is accusing Ernesto de la Cruz of murdering him and stealing all his songs.”

“WHAT?! I swear to God, Martin, if you’re pulling my leg...”

“No, I’m serious, man!” assured the first voice, Martin. “I was listening to a news story about it on the radio like an hour before my car crash. And it sounded like they’re winning too. They managed to track down Rivera’s remains and found, like, lethal amounts of arsenic in them. The dude had a daughter that he wrote letters to with a bunch of de la Cruz songs in them but they’re dated from way before de la Cruz made it big. Oh! And you know that famous red notebook with all of de la Cruz’s songs in them?”

A beat of silence as, Ernesto assumed, Juan nodded a yes.

“They did a handwriting comparison and the writing in the notebook is a perfect match to the letters, but NONE of the samples of de la Cruz’ handwriting they could find come even close!”

Ernesto only half listened to the rest of the conversation, Martin’s voice becoming more and more enthused as he went on, talking about how Ernesto’s record label was fighting the accusations as fiercely as they could, but the living Riveras had a pair of very good lawyers and the public was already very obviously in their favor.  Eventually the conversation switched to other topics, and Ernesto, no longer needing to listen to what was being said, returned to his hut in the abandoned Shantytown in a numbed daze.

“They know.  They KNOW!  This is all wrong!” Ernesto cried once he was back in the relative safety of the Shantytown.  “I am Ernesto de la Cruz!  The greatest and most beloved musician of all time!  I’m supposed to be loved and remembered forever!  I mean, I could maybe, eventually, kind of accept my ruined reputation here in the Land of the Dead,” he reasoned, “But that was because I’d thought there was no way Hector's snotty little brat of a great-great grandson would ever be able to reveal what I’d done to the rest of the world, or even his own family, without sounding crazy.”  But apparently, Ernesto could not have been more wrong.  The brat and his family were dragging his name through the mud with reckless abandon and everyone was just going along with it!  “How dare they!” Ernesto snarled as he paced and agonized over his situation.  “What ever happened to not speaking ill of the dead?!  I am supposed to be remembered and cherished, not hated and forgotten!”

**_“Now who said anything about being forgotten?”_ **

Ernesto would forever deny the very high pitched and very undignified screech that the unexpected voice pulled out of him.  Ernesto spun around in fright and fell hard on his tailbone in awe at the figure he saw before him.  The figure, which Ernesto assumed must be a woman, since he had never seen a man hold himself with so much power and grace at the same time, was massively tall and slender, her dress a vision of deep crimson, her large sombrero colored to match, and the marigold flowers piled atop it seeming to radiate light.  Her whole form, in fact, seemed to cast an aura all around her and bathed her drab surroundings in golden light.  But then she lifted her head to reveal the face that had been previously hidden by the brim of her hat, and it took everything in Ernesto not to scream in horror.  Her eye cavities were empty and soulless, yet seemed to stare through Ernesto and into eternity.  There was no distortion of her skull structure to close and cover up the space between her skull and mandible as all other spirits in the Land of the Dead had, and instead, every tooth was on proud display for all to see.  The calvera markings on her skull glowed like fire and seemed pulse to the beat of a nonexistent heart, the light flaring to a white hot light that burned to look at.  The worst was the sacred heart engraved into her forehead, that, as Ernesto squinted to look at, he realized actually moved!  The carving itself seemed to beat as if it were an heart, in perfect time to the pulsing glow that burned Ernesto’s eyes.

“Who— Who are you?” Ernesto cried.

 ** _“I, am La Catrina,”_ ** she replied. Her jaw did not move when she spoke but instead her voice seemed to reverberate around her and echo in Ernesto’s skull long after she’d finished speaking.  When he did not respond to her, La Catrina tilted her skull to the side in annoyance, though her face did not move.  _ **“Well?”**_ she prompted, _**“Aren’t you going to ask me why I am here?  It is not everyday I make a personal appearance, you know.”**_

That seemed to snap Ernesto out of his daze.  “Why are you here?” he obediently asked, “And what did you mean, ‘who said anything about being forgotten?’”

 _ **“Lucky for you, both of those answers are intertwined.”**_ As she spoke she began to move across the rickety pathways connecting the shacks together, but the boards never creaked from her weight, and her movement was so smooth she almost seemed to glide rather than walk.  “ _ **Now that you’ve been brought up to speed on what has been happening in the Land of the Living, it is time for you to understand your punishment.”** _

“‘Punishment’?” Ernesto parroted, with an attitude far too cocky for his present situation and current company, “How am I to be punished if the authorities never catch me?”

 _ **“Who ever said anything about the authorities being the ones to punish you?”**_ the deity scoffed.

In an instant, Ernesto’s face fell from cocky to troubled.

“If not the authorities, then who else?” he asked.

_**“Me.”** _

If the dead singer still had blood it would have run cold.  That single word was filled with so much malicious pleasure that it shook him to his core.

 _ **“As we speak,”**_ she continued, turning to face him, _**“You are being posthumously declared guilty of first-degree murder, theft, plagiarism, and fraud.  Every bit of wealth you ever earned is being returned to the Riveras, and no one but fools too stubborn to listen to facts and reason will think of you fondly ever again.”**_

“But, I am still remembered!” Ernesto cried, desperate for some kind of lifeline to refute her words.

 _ **“And that is your punishment,”**_ La Catrina replied.

“What?”

 _ **“You spent your entire life desperate for the world to know your name and love you.  So desperate, that you heartlessly murdered the man who trusted you and thought of you as a brother when you thought he was taking away your chance at fame.  So what better punishment for you, than to be known and despised?”**_ she hissed. 

 _ **“You will not be forgotten, de la Cruz.  You will live in infamy, your name and existence despised as the love and adoration you stole is given to Hector and his family, for they are the ones who truly deserve it,”**_ she continued as she advanced on him, her markings growing brighter and brighter and her massive height causing Ernesto to cower before her out of fear of the burning heat now radiating from her.  _**“Your punishment, Ernesto de la Cruz, is to be so infamous, and so despised, that you are never forgotten and you will spend every moment of the rest of your eternal afterlife knowing that you are one of the most despised men to have ever walked the Earth!”**_

Despite the almost screaming rage radiated by the terrifying skeleton woman, Ernesto's alebrijes chose that moment to come running to him and demand his attention. 

Her anger vanished in a moment and she returned to her full height.  As she straightened out a few wrinkles in her dress, Ernesto managed to find his voice again and timidly asked, “What of my alebrijes?  They still love me, are you going to take them away, too?”

Her skull never moved, but Ernesto was sure she smirked at him.  _**“Now why would I take away an integral part of your punishment?  You’re going to need someone to keep you company for the next several millennia if you’re going to stay anything resembling sane.  After all, it wouldn’t be much of a punishment if you’re too crazy to remember that you’re being punished, now would it?”**_

Suddenly, the yipping chihuahua alebrijes seeking his love and attention were the most horrifying things Ernesto had ever laid eyes on.  Alebrijes were meant to be guides and companions, eternally loyal and loving of the soul they guided, but Ernesto’s were being used to torture him.

“Why?” was the only question he could choke out in his dawning horror.

_**“It’s called ‘karma’, Ernesto. And you’re about to get a first-hand lesson in just how much of a bitch she really is.”** _

In the blink of any eye, La Catrina was gone, and all that remained in the abandoned Shantytown was Ernesto de la Cruz robotically petting Caramello’s head as he realized that the place he’d once seen as a refuge was actually his prison, and his beloved alebrijes were to be his jailers.  In that instant, the last remnants of his confidence that he’d been desperately clinging to shattered into dust, never to be repaired.

 

* * *

 

_Time marched on._

 

There was a massive celebration at the Department of New Arrivals when Hector’s daughter Coco died in her sleep a few months later.  Everyone who worked at the department had some kind of familiarity with the lanky musician from watching him try for over a century to cross without a photo on an ofrenda.  Word of the celebration spread quickly and even managed to reach Ernesto as he wallowed in his self-pity.  The brief thought of trying to get revenge on Hector by using his daughter crossed his mind for only a second before he dismissed it.

“What’s the point,” he bemoaned, still unable to shake the habit of thinking out loud after so many decades of always having a listening ear ready to hear him, “Even if I could do anything to her it’s not like it would help me.  Everyone would still hate me.  That is my _'punishment'_ after all.”

 

_A decade passed._

 

Miguel Rivera’s latest album was at the top of the charts and, with the blessings and encouragement of his family, he was about to go on his first world tour.  His little sister wasn’t happy to see him leave, but the promise to call or text or video chat with her every day seem to placate her enough that she only stubbornly clung to his leg for ten minutes instead of her threatened hour.

“I’ll give you a call as soon as my plane lands, okay, Coco?” Miguel assured her.

“You promise?”

“Cross my heart!”

“You’d better hurry if you don’t want to miss your flight, mijo,” his mother warned.

“Yes, Mama.”

“Are you growing a goatee?” his music partner teased as Miguel hopped in his truck.

“Just shut up and drive, Armando,” Miguel deflected as he defensively covered up the patch of hair on his chin he’d grown out to match his Papa Hector’s.

“Whatever, bro,” Armando replied with a chuckle.

 

_A century passed._

 

“ _A COLD CASE STUDY?!_ ” Ernesto screeched at the sky, raging and fuming over the papers tightly clenched in his hand.  His alebrijes cowered together in a corner of Ernesto’s hut as he continued to rant and rave at the sky in place of the terrifying La Catrina that he really wanted to yell at.   Every couple of decades, an envelope would appear in Ernesto’s pockets, containing information about how bad and horrible his reputation continued to be.  La Catrina, for Ernesto was sure it had to be her, seemed to take great pleasure in rubbing it in Ernesto’s face how much people hated him with the little reminders she left him every few years. 

And it was always when Ernesto was just starting to forget that he used to be famous; just when he started to forget that it had all be ripped away from him and he could start to pretend that he was living in the abandoned Shantytown, with only his alebrijes for company, by choice.

 

_A millennia passed, and Ernesto was still remembered._

 

The Riveras continued to prosper in their remembered state, thinking it some fluke of luck that they were so lucky to have been remembered for over a thousand years after they’d been alive. 

Ernesto knew better.  Ernesto knew that it wasn’t just luck or the attentive dedication of his former best friend’s great-great-grandson working tirelessly in his life to pass on and make sure everyone knew the names of his family just as well as they knew his own or his grandfather’s.

“No,” Ernesto muttered to himself as he burned another poster for the Dia de los Muertos Sunrise Showcase that had fluttered it’s way down to his hovel.  “It’s that damn La Catrina.  She is behind this, she must be.  No one can be remembered for that long without help.  It must be.  It must be, it must be...” 

He didn’t even notice when he slipped into repeating the same three words over and over, like a skipping record player, as he stared at the flames as they burned away the smiling faces of Hector and Miguel Rivera printed on it.  As he continued his mantra, Ernesto de la Cruz desperately wondered what it would take for him to finally be forgotten so he could finally die the Final Death and no longer be taunted by the bones that were just as pure and white, under all the neglectful grime, as they had been the moment he’d died the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we're finished!
> 
> This has been a fun ride, and I'd like to give a special thanks to every single person who has read, liked, commented, bookmarked, etc. this fic. I literally haven't written anything beyond academic papers in almost five years now, so having such positive response and feedback from you all on my first attempt at fanfic in years has been so encouraging to me!
> 
> Until the next time inspiration strikes me,  
> Toodles!


End file.
